


Baby's on Fire

by ignited



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-15
Updated: 2004-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the eve of Valentine, and tradition is always important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby's on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Tweaked the time a bit here on this, as it's set in S3 of BtVS. Still S3, but a bit tweaked due to, duh, Valentine's Day. Ahem. ;) Darkness, absolute. I apologize. Also un-betaed. Random and flowing, for that is how the idea came to me. "Baby's On Fire" lyrics by Brian Eno, song performed by Brian Slade in the film 'Velvet Goldmine'
> 
>  **Recipient** : Lexis  
>  **Season** : S3, BtVS  
>  **Element** : Diamonds

Pound. Pause. Pound. Pause.

The air ripples and cracks with white noise that escalates into screams and electric guitar. Bodies sway to the noise, zombies lost in their own endless dance. They laugh and joke, kiss and cry out - they are the teenagers of Sunnydale, ripe and ready for the taking. But there's only a few vampires here tonight, Angel being one of them.

He's a patch of ebony in otherwise colorful settings. Angel stands towards the back of the Bronze, a blank expression. The music escalates as the singer leans into the microphone. Clearly getting his rocks off - that's how musicians are, these days, Angel thinks. There was a time that music meant much more than enormous jewelry and lucrative record contracts.

Of course, there was the brief bliss of glam rock in the seventies, but Angel really doesn't want to think about that.

He listens to the music and scans the crowd.

Girls, boys, all of them dancing. Grinding. And whatever the hell people did these days. There is no familiar face to be seen - Wait. There.

Cordelia dances a little with Xander, nothing explicit, but nothing too slow either. They've got pent-up energy, sweat and worry on them. Probably had a scuffle or two with vampires recently. In any case, both of them talk to each other while dancing, burning off the extra energy. Xander says a joke, Angel guesses, for Cordelia laughs after.

That is when Angel recognizes the song playing.

_Baby's on fire  
Better throw her in the water  
Look at her laughing-_

Suddenly, Cordelia's at the counter, twirling a stirrer in her hot chocolate. Her shoulders are tense, up, a scarf barely touching them. A flash of dark red against her neck - the material, of course-that she absently tugs. She's talking to Willow, who seems to be on another obsession or new fact of some sorts. Angel doesn't particularly know, nor does he wish to ask. He's not made for this sort of - chatting, thing.

Cordelia nods, flashes that brilliant smile before glancing over at him. Clearly surprised by his appearance, she murmurs a word or two to Willow before standing up. The redhead turns, seeing Angel, gives a small wave of two fingers.

But it's Cordelia that walks over to him, concentrated.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. Her arms are crossed, before she hesitates and lets them hang at her sides.

"Admiring the scenery," he responds automatically, before nodding towards the crowd. "Are public places off-limits?"

She rolls her eyes, shrugging. "I know you're adjusting - we all are. But it's too soon. After …the things that have been happening. Xander wouldn't want to see you."

"Oh. Well, then I'll just leave because of him."

"Angel!"

She opens her mouth to speak, but Angel interrupts with, "Want to go for a walk?"

"With you?" Almost incredulous, but she covers it up with a smile. "I guess. We can talk."

"Good."

Silence.

"I'll get my coat."

_\- Like a heifer to the slaughter_

\--

_Baby's on fire  
And all the laughing boys are bitching  
Waiting for photos  
Oh the plot is so bewitching_

Xander asks why Cordelia's leaving, but her excuse does not deter him in the least. She flicks a hand at him, indicating for him to not worry. She'll be fine. He insists that she call him when she arrives home. Naturally, wanting to know every sordid detail. Another moment of bantering, and then she's ready to leave the Bronze. It's Angel, and contrary to popular belief, for the moment - he doesn't bite.

They walk together.

"So. How are - things?"

"They're - good," she says, caught a tad off-guard. But she's already nervous, walking underneath twisted branches and above rough pavement. She needn't worry. After all, Angel's walking her home. He can sense any danger, hear any movement, that sort of thing. She's still on edge. It's understandable.

Jenny Calendar has been killed by those hands that nervously shove into pockets.

Cordelia tightens her grip on her bag, then stops. It's not like he'd go and do anything. After all, chance of that? Very low. Chance of him surviving the onslaught of Scoobies to the rescue? High, but not as high than it used to be. Or at least, she'd like to think that. Everyone was on edge around him nowadays. He had just returned from Hell, and was good. Strange, that, but they tried to accept it. And were. Sort of.

Angel clears his throat, after a moment of lost musings.

"Are you all right?" she asks in return, staring at him pointedly. He avoids her gaze until they reach the corner of a block. Then he stops, as if waiting for a light or the school crossing guard. Lights shine down from storefronts, the street slick with rain. Puddles of gold and spatters of red. They're all done in red and burgundy, a sad sight for lovesick eyes.

Valentine's Day is tomorrow.

"As in..." He pauses, waiting.

"You know. Not with the killing of people," she blurts, then catches herself. A nervous motion of fingers pushing her hair away. "I'm sorry! I mean - as a whole...the whole thing. Brooding."

"As best as one could possibly be in my - situation, I guess." He frowns, seeming to notice their surroundings for the first time. "I think we missed a block."

Cordelia bites her lip, fingers absentmindedly playing with her bag zipper. "Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Home, she thinks, but then winces at the idea. No, saying things like that will just go to show how stupidly unnerved you are. It's Angel. No big deal.

"I wanted to show you something. An artifact I managed to get after a vamp scuffle. It's something different. Might be dangerous, so I might as well give you guys the heads up," Angel says, pointing. The streets are familiar now, and her feet fall into perfect steps. Not too far from his mansion.

"Show _me_? But - the others-"

"You can tell them. You're good at handling that. I - can't." He swallows, head bending lower. "I don't think it's ready for me to talk to them yet."

They walk another block.

"You have to eventually," she instructs, letting her own gaze fall on the sidewalk.

\--

**London 1895**

The Victrola sputters and clicks, a soft hush once the record is replaced and needle set. Angelus lets his fingers brush the cool curves of a wine glass. Lovingly, he cups the curves gently, and plucks the wine glass from its station. Then he moves forward into the room, where his guest is waiting.

She's dark haired and a bit of a ninny, as far as he's concerned. Spike brought her in payment for another girl that Angel gave him. They were like that, you know. They knew how to _share_. Whether it involved food or mouth-to-mouth - blood shouldn't be left to waste - they would share.

So the girl waited for him, posture straight, naked and waiting. She was gold in the candlelight, rays that snaked across the curves of her breasts, her stomach and hips. Her hair ran down her shoulders in waves, dark waves that covered her back. Sheets twisted around her stomach in rushed movements-panting, and so on-she was a painting, his Renaissance.

For the moment.

"I have a bauble for you, dear," Angelus began, hands behind his back. His shirt was open, hair down, trousers barely buttoned. From behind his back he produced a sparkling confection of diamonds. They were shiny and fragile, multiple chains connected into a few strings of diamonds. A grand necklace that he held out for her.

She clapped her hands and laughed giddily, lifting her hair. Pushing it off her neck.

"Happy Valentine's Day, darling."

He was clearly ready to oblige.

\--

They have almost reached the mansion. In fact, they're coming up the road, and now they're at the garden entrance. Angel opens the door, stepping back to let Cordelia in. She stops short, the grip on her bag tightening.

The fireplace is lit, and in front of it, a beautiful and ornate Victrola on the coffee table.

"Where did you get that?" she asks, coming closer to it. "It's...old. And beautiful."

A twirl around the table, bending down. She looks to her right, and Angel is there. He bends to pick up a record and put it on, setting the needle into place. After he straightens, he says, "I found it at the thrift store earlier. Surprised they had one. Fiddled around with it. And I, uh, dug up some music I collected."

"That's nice," Cordelia responds, then pauses. Puts a lock of hair behind her ear. She nods to the other items on the coffee table. "What are those?"

"Some papers regarding the artifact. And-"

Cordelia picks up one. A torn paper, filled with boxes and drawings. Advertisements. The yellow pages, had they been invented at the time. This paper was yellowed and soft, worn with age. "Ads?"

Angel nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah."

"Ah. Big on the nostalgia, aren't we?" she says, blowing on the paper. Dust comes off, and she notices one particular advertisement.

A jewelry store. A sale on diamond necklaces.

"You could say that."

\--

"Oh, it's marvelous, Angelus!" says the girl with excitement, teeth mind-numbingly white. Angelus chooses to focus on that, as he can't really find anything wrong with the girl. Perhaps her voice. A little high. Still, women are women, and this one isn't anything special.

She may have curves of the Renaissance, he muses, but she is not worth the canvas.

"It is, isn't it? I bought it at the shop today," he says, and is lying, but she's too involved in the present that she doesn't notice. "It was meant to be worn... by you."

Angelus places the diamond necklace on her neck, smelling her hair in the process.

"Now the gift's been given, let us start the second act," he whispers. Oh, and after that?

He smiles because the curtain shall fall.

\--

_Rescuers row, row  
Do your best to change the subject_

"Well, it's late. I think I should start heading home now," Cordelia blurts, smiling briefly as she stands up. _Now you get some common sense after traveling here with Angel - to his home - at night? Great job!_

Angel frowns, then nods to the doorway. "But - I have that thing to show you."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Cordelia asks, and waits for a response. He hesitates, the room filling with violins and trumpets. Music floats from the Victrola, echoing against stark and cavernous gray walls. Untouched by firelight, they stand imposing, draped in shadows. Angel seems to be one such shadow, pale face in dark clothing.

But he doesn't say anything for a long moment, only snaps his mouth shut. He furrows his brow, thinking.

"Angel?"

"It's just-" He looks down, then up again, almost pained. "That song. I've forgotten all about it. Triggered a memory."

"Happy memory or a 'I'm gonna rip out your guts' sort of memory?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

He shakes himself out of this funk, then nods towards the direction of his room. "It's in there."

_Blow the wind blow, blow  
Lend some assistance to the object_

\--

Angelus places the diamond necklace around her neck and watches it sparkle.

Violins strain and seem to break.

\--

Angel pauses. A catch in the tone of music. Cordelia turns, stopping from looking at the doorway.

"Are you okay?"

"It's - nothing." He frowns. "Just a memory."

"Oh."

\--

They dance and sparkle in her eyes, as he locks the clasp. Looks at the curve of her neck.

Smiles.

\--

Cordelia takes a step into Angel's bedroom.

\--

Such a pretty thing, how she sparkles.

He winds a finger around the diamonds. Lets the harsh angles burn and imprint his fingers.

And Angelus gets a good length of the diamond necklace that is around her neck.

Then he pulls.

Very hard.

\--

His bed sheets were once a soft orange, clean and unused. But now they are soiled and twisted about. A puddle has formed on the bed surface. Brown black stains, dripping lines that wind down the sides and snake along the floor.

A pool of blood that drips from the object hanging from the ceiling.

\--

"Angelus!"

A couple of stumbling steps, before a thud. Pause. A knock, twisting knob. The door opens. Spike hangs in the doorway, brown blonde bangs in his eyes. Vampire face grinning, he nods towards Angelus in front of him. Raises a bottle of wine, even.

"Didn't think you'd make such a mess, mate."

\--

She twirls in the firelight, but her eyes are wet and dead.

And she smells.

\--

On his bed, Angelus has propped the girl languidly across the pillows. Her limbs are soft ivory against burgundy and mauve. Her curves slope up, slope down, and she is on her side. Hair lies on the pillow, and her hand-it is cold - touches her cheek.

A painting, no, a Greek sculpture even.

For her head has nearly been torn off, and her throat ripped, neck snapped in two.

Angelus pulls away from the hollow and broken hole of her neck, his mouth covered in blood.

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes say, _come here, boy_.

\--

_Photographers snip-snap  
Take your time she's only burning_

A light fixture could be very strong, or at least this particular one is. The base has come off, screws having popped out from the weight. Still, the object hangs precariously from it. Legs move softly, as if pushed by a phantom wind.

A body hangs, noose around its neck. It twirls just so, in its death dance, flesh stinking of rot. Her fingernails are streaked with blood, hands and feet are brimming with cuts. Open wounds that drip dark blood. Her skirt has been torn, clothing ripped.

Angel stands in the hallway, right behind the girl at the door.

He remembers.

\--

Spike, normal guise now, cants his head. He pulls his scarf loose, then nods towards the hallway. "Much as it's appetizing, got a pair of sailors straight from the dock. Bloody corsairs an' all. I've been in the mood for sea water this evening."

Seeming to pout, Angelus sits back, hand waving. Not in greeting, no, for he stares at his fingers in the light. The shine of blood on them.

The dripping diamond necklace, its angles sharp and cut glass.

It was rather helpful in cutting her neck in two. Just give it a good yank and slices right through.

He has it looped around a finger, and waves the necklace. A perfect circular arc, before he stops, then hops off the bed.

\--

She is speechless, and stares at the corpse hanging from the noose.

The corpse is a dead contrast, beauty gone to waste.

It is now that Angel sees the girl in front of him, as if for the first time. It is now that he notices that this guest is different, and new. For while this has been done before, in old terms, this has been a common experience.

For there was that time in London when he cut the girl's neck nearly clean through with diamonds. It slid through her flesh very easily. And there was two months ago, when he cut this corpse, this dead girl's neck almost through, the same way, with diamonds.

But that girl in London was born to a noble family, and Cordelia was not so noble as she was rich.

The dead girl turns in place again.

…And she was not very hard to kill at the time.

In front of him, blonde hair is sweet, smelling of shampoo and soap. He picks these scents off her easily. They are similar to the previous brunette. Glances at the bag that was once filled with makeup, but this is filled with stakes and crosses.

In front of him, Buffy, not Cordelia as he imagined, starts to turn around.

But she doesn't get very far, for Angel pulls a bauble out of his pocket.

Brown and crusted diamonds, glass and angles on a string.

\--

 

Angelus is rather quick in putting his coat on. Experience in all areas, that was key, and not just baser instincts. One could kill a person with a twist of a neck, or a simple scuffle. He preferred a longer course that eventually led to fangs sinking into flesh.

This night's course had ended, and his painting was complete. Nude on a bloodied backdrop, nearly headless, and sucked dry.

He really did feel that it was a masterwork.

\--

Buffy struggles more than Cordelia did, but their general feeling is matched. They cling to life, scramble for it, yet it slips away. Just as quick and easy as the diamonds cut into her flesh. How he pulls them back, as if to choke her. Violent still, and they cut and almost decapitate her.

Throat ripped, blood gushes out of her throat, a noisy and messy waterfall that stains his bedroom floor.

Buffy sinks to her knees, bag thrown. Her fingers grasp feebly at the diamonds, then those limbs grow weak. They were flailing. Slower. Slower. Stop.

Angel grasps the diamond necklace in his fingers, it pulling up the torn shreds of neck and spinal cord of the Slayer. A master pulling on the leash.

He lets one end of the necklace free. Her body hits the ground with a wet slap.

_This kind of experience  
Is necessary for her learning_

\--

"You've no taste for art," Angelus says, walking past Spike. He stops, then takes a couple steps back. Spike has, of course, rolled his eyes, but cannot help himself from being fascinated by the corpse. She is a painting really, bloody and beautiful on a silken backdrop. Romantic figure, tainted with Greek and Roman from the nearly torn head.

Angelus slides the diamond necklace into Spike's coat pocket. "Happy Valentine's Day."

He gives him a kiss, and Spike licks Angelus' lips.

Cold, wet, and sticky.

"But I do have a taste for sailors," Angelus concedes, and pulls Spike along the hallway, and to the exit.

\--

_If you'd be my flotsam  
I could be half the man I used to_

Angel stares at the dead body, and then at the other hanging corpse. How long had it been since Cordelia was reported missing? Since he brought her to his house, and then - But that was then, and this night was déjà vu again. The same, every instant, and he'd already gotten away with it once. He replayed it all over and over in his head, Cordelia's hair, her body, the accessories and trimmings. Except this time, it was the Slayer. He had pictured her, imagined her as Cordelia, but it had been Buffy tonight.

Not that it mattered anyway. They all died the same.

Three times now.

The rich girl, dead. Cordelia Chase, missing. Mourned. Would Buffy be mourned? Of course she would. He knew he wouldn't, of course. For he murdered them.

As Angelus - for that was he, and it had to be - steps over Buffy's body, he closes his eyes. The hunger and blackness stirs and smiles.

It loves tradition, and so does he.

He jumps up, rather quick, and undoes the noose that burns into torn flesh. Cordelia flops, a limp rag doll, into his arms, She's been marked by him, and she cannot protest. He lays her out on the bed. She falls into place, into soft grooves in the mattress where a body has lain with another for quite some time. He made it a brand new spectacle for his fresh victim, having roped the old one to the ceiling.

Buffy closed her eyes before she died. A variance. The other girl's remained open.

At least Cordelia and he would have company now.

It would be a very happy Valentine's Day after all.

_They said you were hot stuff  
And that's what baby's been reduced to_

\--

The Victrola stops the strings and trumpets, having reached the end of the song.

White noise, rippling and cracking.

\--

_But baby's on fire  
And all the instruments agree that  
Her temperature's rising  
But any idiot would know that_

END


End file.
